


Comm-Sensual Relations

by Britpacker



Series: Comms. [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Ain't technology wonderful? Trip and Malcolm keep in touch





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
> **Author's notes:** Still not mine - drat! - except the mistakes, as I've no beta to blame.

They haven't skimped on luxury, the Bratolians. I'm the least of Enterprise's visiting dignitaries and even I've been given a suite that makes Buck House look like a suburban semi. They must've given the Captain Versailles at least.

Still, it makes a change to be pampered, with servants bringing delicious trays of tempting nibbles, cool jugs of sparkling cordial and a dozen different shower gels to select from. The benefits of being presented as Chief Tactical Officer rather than head of security, even if I wouldn't have thought Archer was much in need of my strategic brilliance. He's got his Vulcan goddess of Logic whispering in his right ear as I hover by his left shoulder in the conference chamber after all, but for some reason her dusty presence hasn't gone down terribly well with the Bratolian government. 

Apparently they have no appreciation of logic. Perhaps that's why her advice on handling them, a species as civil as the Tellarites and more chaotic than the asteroid fields of the Great Belt, has been about as much use as a long streak of piss in a sandstorm. After the third walkout of the initial meeting the captain decided he needed another set of human instincts to back up his own.

He'd have been better off with Hoshi. Or Trip. Or Phlox, come to think of it. All these years of avid study must have given him a greater insight into humanity's (or similar's) little foibles than I've managed to acquire in a lifetime of sharing them. _Gut instinct_ was never my forte.

And I don't want to sleep in an overblown penthouse suite on the top floor of an unnecessarily opulent palace. I want my own cramped cabin; my own tiny bed; and my own beautiful big blond comfort blanket wrapping himself around me.

Look on the bright side, Reed. Usually you're expected to stand sentry duty for hours at a time in all bloody weathers without so much as a flask of tea and a dry crust for sustenance. Or required to prove your _prowess_ as a warrior in some prolonged (and painful) ritual challenge. At least this time you've got ample food and a shower big enough to conduct a Roman orgy in.

Bit difficult on your own, but never mind. My shoulders are cramped from hours stooping over the conference table. I could do with a proper massage, but a bit of pummelling from the hot water jets will have to suffice.

The cubicle fills up with steam in no time and every scorching droplet that strikes makes my skin sting with a bone-deep, satisfying tingle. And credit where it's due, their forest-scented body washes lather up with the richness of double cream. It's a pleasant change not to have to listen out for the annoying chirp that signals _timeâ's up_ on Enterprise. I could stay in here, rivulets dripping off my upturned face and streaming down my chest, all night.

Bollocks. That irritating cheeping sound isn't the shower, or the local bird life. It's my bloody communicator. 

I thought we'd been let off early for good behaviour!

It's all I can do not to growl as I flip the infernal device open, stark naked and dripping all over a fake fur rug before the open fire. "Reed."

"Hey, Loo-tenant." Despite the flames winding over aromatic logs that smell like apple wood gooseflesh breaks out all over. That _voice_! "How's it goin' down there?"

He sounds very _informal_ but then, Enterprise's current occupant of the big chair always does. Best to adopt a professional tone however unprofessional the feelings that crawl through my guts. "Everything's under control, Commander. The negotiations..."

"I know about that." Laughter informs every prolonged syllable but, far from being embarrassed, I find myself smiling too. "Spoke to the cap'n before I came off duty. He told me you'd all been sent off to relax and refresh. In private."

There's something about the furtive way he almost whispers the last two words that clues me into exactly what he's up to, and suddenly I have angel and devil on either shoulder. We shouldn't do this - too risky. But oh what the sound of his voice, low and gravelly, absolutely _humming_ with sex, does to me!

"Are you all alone, Malcolm?" The words dribble down my body, seeping through the skin until I can feel them thrumming off every nerve ending. It's all I can do to squeak an affirmation.

"Good, 'cause so am I." As if I hadn't guessed! Even Trip's exhibitionism has its limits. "You wanna know where I am?"

"Your quarters I assume." That was flippant enough for him, and it earns me a throaty chuckle that seems to wrap itself like a hand around my delighted cock. Oh, this is ridiculous!

"Uh-uh. Hope you don't mind, but I figured I'd feel better layin' on your bed tonight. The sheets still smell of you."

And not just of me. My penis is thoroughly engaged in the conversation now, as it was in his hands and mouth and arse last night. "Can't think what we did t' make such a mess," he sighs, the way he always does when we're snuggling close, just lightly petting: both feeling randy, but wanting to savour the subtle sensation before it's overwhelmed by more primitive feelings. "I promise I'll change 'em before you get home."

"Only if you want to." The thought of him lying there surrounded by the smell of us is impossibly erotic. Trip laughs.

"Maybe I'll leave it," he croons. "Get the smell of you all over me, just as if you were here. What are you doing right now, Malcolm?"

Malcolm. He hardly ever calls me that when we're alone and in normal conversation. I'm _Darlin'_ or _Mal_ then: _Lieutenant_ or _Malcolm_ are for when we're on duty, or have company. 

Or, of course, when we're making love and he moans my name as if he's savouring the taste of each individual syllable.

This has got to stop!

"I _was_ taking a shower until someone decided to interrupt me." I'm fairly sure I intended that to be tart, and I know before he gasps it came out (if the word isn't laughable in relation to Malcolm Reed) rather sultry. Erm, wasn't I supposed to be putting a stop to his preposterous game?

"I dashed out thinking it might be the Captain; or T'Pol," I continue, and my skin is prickling gloriously now, a side-effect of the excitement that's fizzing up my innards. His gulp is clearly audible.

"You stop t' put on a robe?"

It's barely a whisper. "No," I reply with a defiant lip-smack.

"Hell Malcolm, how'm Ah s'posed to git that image outta mah head?" my lover wails, and shouldn't I be deflated by hearing him distressed? My cock is demanding some attention, and absently I give it a fond squeeze. Oops.

I bet he didn't mistake _that_ for a comm. glitch!

"Mah Malcolm wearin' nothing but a few drops 'f water." His accent's s thick as that ghastly chocolate sludge he insists on smothering perfectly good vanilla ice cream with. The pistol-shot sound of his lips being theatrically smacked echoes through my suite. "Hot damn, Ah wanna be there."

"I want you here too." Oh, do I want him! My whole body is tingling; my balls feel tender, and when I brush a fingertip across they tighten as if they're caught in a steel trap. "Trip, we mustn't..."

"I wanna lick every last drop off that gorgeous lil' body." He's not listening, and truthfully, I don't want him to. My knees are liquefying. Suddenly that bizarre circular waterbed that dominates the room looks more appealing than absurd. 

The contents hiss as I collapse, and his ears, if not quite of Vulcan sensitivity, are well enough attuned to detect _that_. "I can picture you now, darlin'," he murmurs, the words entering at ear and travelling at warp 8 straight to groin. "You wrigglin' around on one 'f those great big waterbeds Johnny told me about, tryin' to find a position that don't ache. Am I right?"

_Yes, damn you!_

The scream stays in my head, because I can't seem to form coherent words. "It won't work," he adds, and though I know he's aiming for regret, he just sounds damnably smug. "I know: I'm tryin' the same thing, right here where you made me scream last night."

My penis throbs painfully. "Trip, stop this," I sigh, the sound extending as my traitorous hand drifts south of the navel. "Someone might be..."

"Darlin' I'm the chief engineer on this bucket 'f bolts." Laughter enriches every delicious syllable. "If Hoshi's running a late-night unscheduled diagnostic in her quarters she might get through, but..."

"How's her insomnia - oh! - been lately?"

It's his fault I moan, my fingers inadvertently grazing one pebbled nipple as I lay back with my eyes tight shut and dream it's his hand feathering over me. I've often speculated (in idle moments at my station, which is frankly inexcusable in an officer) whether he could make me come with his syrupy voice and smutty words alone. I may be about to find out.

Oh, good!

"Dunno." He's slurring, and I know what that means. Behind my lowered lids I can see him, stretched along my narrow bunk with his feet braced on the mattress and his bent knees apart, absently fingering his groin, supporting his shoulders against my pillows as he pleasures himself. "Don't care. Who were we talkin' about again?"

"Does it matter?" The picture's so vivid I can track the path of those clever digits: up over that smooth belly, twining through the mat of fine gold hair that widens to cover his majestic chest. When he whimpers, I know he's caught a nipple between index finger and thumb. I have to do the same myself.

Lightening bolts shoot to my balls. I'm even more sensitive there than he is; and curse him, he knows it.

"Do that again, darlin'." It's a plea I take as a command, and who am I to disobey a superior officer?

I may be aquaphobic but I've never suffered a moment of seasickness: which is as well considering the way this liquid mattress is squishing about under and around me as I squirm, both hands busy, cock and nipples, throat and balls, all catching fire under the touch he directs. I'm no longer alone in a sterile (if sumptuous) guest suite; I'm in my own cabin, watching my darling beautiful Trip as he works his splendid body for my ecstatic delectation. 

"Yeah darlin'. Stroke yourself. Let me hear you moan my name." 

His voice is ragged now. I can hear the bedclothes shift, so stimulated are my ears, as he writhes; hear every soft huff of his breath as if it were kissing my overheated skin. I've forgotten whose hand it is wrapped around me, pumping firm and fast, smearing my length with Mother Nature's finest lubricant. Even if he hadn't asked, I can't seem to stop the delirious little whimpers seeping between my puckered lips. "Trip, oh God yes, Trip!"

"Mmm, so hot Malcolm." His pant overlays my own and it turns up the thermostat inside me another notch. "Tell me - tell me what you're thinkin' right now"

Damn it, he wants coherent speech? I'm struggling to think at all!

Bliss washes over me as a fingertip swishes across my slit, and the words just seem to flow. "Thinking - thinking how good you'd feel - covering me. Your body on mine..."

"That's it baby." He knows I hate being called that. Usually.

"Fucking me through the mattress... Oh God!" I'm winding so tight inside, every muscle burning with the tension of impending release. 

And he's incoherent now, mumbling, gasping as we push each other closer to the edge, and it's so wonderful I never want it to end. "I want... Jeez Mal I need... oh yeah, so good..."

It's as if every syllable is a caress. I'm molten, dissolving into the bed, so close, so wrapped up in the sound of him as he comes screeching my name. It's too good, too much, I can't...

Everything erupts in a blaze of white light and my body is burning up, the spasm of my rigid balls reducing me to a river of liquid heat. I'm threshing, sobbing, then finally floating on his softening sighs as the convulsions diminish and I begin to come back to myself. He's snuffling gently down the comm., low, sleepy sounds of contentment that melt my hammering heart into the same mush as the rest of my liquefied body. 

"Malcolm." It's the only word he can articulate amid the broken mumbles that ooze into my ears like the sweetest lullaby "Mmmmm, my Mal. Y' alright down there?"

"Just wonderful." It's true. I feel languid and cosy, semen dribbling over my trunk and the blissfully woozy cotton-wool feeling refusing to clear from my waltzing head. My eyelids won't lift, and frankly, I'm not going to force the issue. With his heavy breathing echoing from the communicator by my right ear I can almost believe he's beside me. Why would I open my eyes and spoil such a lovely illusion?

His drowsy chuckle washes over me. Why was I ever afraid of drowning? I'm doing it now, sinking into an ocean of love and tenderness, and it's so warm; so comforting. "When I come home, you _are_ going to fuck me, aren't you?"

"All night long, darlin'." He yawns softly. I pull the single blanket, a decadent fleecy thing that tickles my sensitised skin, up to my chin and snuggle down. I'm all warm and sleepy now. I can't be arsed moving, not even to wipe the sticky residue of sex from my belly. 

"Mmm, looking forward to it." My voice comes from a great distance, barely audible over the kiss of his laughter on my ear. 

"You take care 'f yourself, lover. I'll be here waiting when you're done down there." I know, and it's the nicest thought in the galaxy to fall asleep on. "Sweet dreams."

I only have that kind nowadays. Because all my dreams are filled with him.


End file.
